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“Yossi never attended services there.”
    “He never … But Isaac, that doesn’t mean a thing.” She smiled.
    Azoulay’s eyebrows met above his nose.
    “What if Yossi and Naomi traveled past Malaga? Maybe there was no reason to stop.”
    They resumed walking. “If only that were all,” said Isaac.
    Judith clutched her white dress with a perspiring hand. “What else?”
    “Two bodies, by the road. Near the sea. A man’s and a woman’s. Their bags emptied. Everything stolen.”
    “It can’t be.” She stopped. “How would they … How would they know?”
    “They don’t know, Judith. They don’t know. On my suggestion, the synagogue in Malaga has acquired the remains. They’re sending them here. Until then, we can only pray.”
    Judith closed her eyes.
    “I have some ginger root. I’ll make you an infusion. You’ll feel better.”
    She stood outside his door while he went in to fetch the savory root that cost more by weight than gold, then accepted his offer to accompany her home. Passing the moss-covered fountain in her courtyard, they entered the main room of her dwelling.
    Judith had installed the floor herself, colored tiles in complex geometrical patterns—polygons interlaced with circles, surrounded by rectangles, with abstract, leaf- and tear-like shapes scattered throughout. A rug, woven in the Atlas Mountains, lay near the brass table. She had painted the low beams of her ceiling in ocher, asparagus green, and pear yellow. She fell onto a round leather cushion at the low brass table where Isaac prepared the infusion.
    “Judith, with an old man and a young boy to care for, and no one to help you … Anything you need. Anything.”
    She smiled and placed her hand on top of Azoulay’s. They heard Levi leading his grandfather into the courtyard, and removed their hands from the table.
    “Is someone visiting?” asked Baba Shlomo as Levi guided him into the house. His eyes no longer perceived distinct forms, but he sensed a presence.
    “Azoulay, the doctor,” said Levi.
    Levi had not yet removed his Purim costume, the rough cotton windings, turban, and charcoal smudges of a Barbary pirate. He was beautiful, thought Judith. She waved Levi over for a hug. He ignored her.
    “Is someone ill?” Baba Shlomo, a frail, small man, looked every bit his age, with his shaggy white beard and creased visage. He spoke with an accent, a relic from his distant childhood. He held on to Levi’s forearm with a weak grip.
    “Judith isn’t feeling well,” explained Isaac.
    “What is it?”
    “Just an upset stomach,” said Judith. “I’ll be fine, Baba Shlomo.”

     
    Two days later, a mule-drawn cart clopped to the gates of Granada. The Khevra Kaddisha , the burial committee of the synagogue, waited, as did several other curious souls, Jewish and Islamic. Death fascinated so many.
    The driver was an emaciated peasant from the borderlands who spoke both Castilian and Arabic, but neither with ease. Despite her preoccupation with the cart and its contents, Judith felt pity for this man. Who but the most desperate of mortals would accept an occupation like this, which involved handling that most upsetting of all things, decaying human bodies?
    He swung his leg over his mule, dismounted, and opened the lid of his wagon. Before Judith lay two human corpses thrown haphazardly one atop the other, covered with flies and worms, vulture-pecked, sickeningly malodorous, largely decomposed except for their hair, fingernails, and parts of their noses and ears. On an intact portion of one thigh, Judith recognized an ancient scar.
    She covered her mouth as a shriek burst from deep within. Staggering from the corpses, sobbing, she felt a tentative hand on her back and turned to see Isaac Azoulay.
    “Allow me to walk with you.”
    Judith shook her head.
    Walking home alone, she had to make decisions, many of them, and quickly. She had no idea how to tell Levi and Baba Shlomo. Nor did she know how they would live. Most women